


In the Refuge

by Beth Harker (Beth_Harker)



Category: Newsies (1992)
Genre: Gen, Police Brutality, death mention, refuge au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 08:45:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17220692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beth_Harker/pseuds/Beth%20Harker
Summary: AU from the court scene onward. Denton pays the fines for all of the newsies, but the police decide that letting all of them go would look bad. Boots, Swifty, Itey, and Snitch find themselves convicted of crimes that they did not commit, and thrown into the Refuge until the end of the newsies’ strike.





	In the Refuge

They couldn’t let all of the newsies go. That was impossible. It made it look like the police had made a mistake, arresting thirty some odd children only to let them loose to roam the streets the very next morning. It made the newsies look too innocent.

Boots guessed he never would find out what the court had done with the ten dollars in fines that Denton had paid on behalf of him and Swifty. Certainly it wasn’t the kind of information that prison guards were forthcoming about. All he knew was that after they left the court house, they all found themselves crowded together, to be prodded and inspected, and before long somebody had found twenty bucks cash that Swifty swore up and down that he hadn’t stolen, with such a look of shock that Boots was almost inclined to believe him, even if some of the other boys scoffed and giggled.

Swifty was still arguing loudly with the guards, when one of them patted Boots down and found on him the small locket that his Great Aunt Euphemera had given him before she died. Now, the locket was made out of the cheapest tin, and dented at that, but Boots knew a thing or two about spit and polish, and he reckoned the locket shone just as much as any silver he’d ever seen. The guard swung it a few times, blew on it, then rubbed it off so he could see the distorted reflection of his face on its bright surface.

“That’s mine,” Boots said. “I came by it fair. You don’t got any right to it, so if you could please give it back…” Boots’ hands were balled into fists at his side, and the please tasted bitter in his mouth, sounded sarcastic even to his own ears. The guard made as if to backhand him across the face, and though his palm stopped just shy of Boots’ cheek, it was still enough to make Boots stumble back into Racetrack.

“It’s too good for the likes of you,” the guard spat out. He had a ruddy face, and a messy blond mustache. His thick fingers closed around the locket. It made Boots’ stomach sink to see something delicate and pretty, something that he loved, nearly crushed by large hands that wanted to hurt him. Itey had come to stand on one side of him, and Mush the other, but it didn’t help.

“Hey,” Mush put a hand on Boots’ shoulder as he addressed the guard. “Hey, what about you look inside the necklace? It’s one of those picture necklaces! The lady in it’s the spitting image of our pal here, aside from how she’s older and a lady. That oughtta clear things up, huh?”

A few of the other newsies nodded, or spoke out their agreement. The guard just glared.

“How’s about I pretend like I didn’t hear that? Elsewise I’m going to have to lock up every one of you who questions my authority.”

“That ain’t fair!” Boots burst out. He couldn’t help it. This time, when the guard moved in to hit him, he didn’t stop short of his target.

—————–

Boots woke up alone in the same holding cell where he and the other newsies had awaited their trial earlier, only this time he was alone. He wondered if he would be sent back into court, and given the small courtesy of being allowed to state his case before a judge, however biased that judge might be.

No such luck.

He was cuffed and loaded into a carriage, along with Swifty, Snitch, and Itey. The latter two came as a surprise to Boots. They weren’t allowed to speak, though Snitch kept trying to squeak out explanations and protestations of his own pious innocence, getting them all knocked around for his troubles.

Outside the carriage windows, the city of New York was going about its business, just as it did every day. Boots tried to scan the crowds for strikers, with signs and banners, but he saw none. Maybe they were in the square - they hadn’t driven through there. He also looked for newsies selling their papers, and he was pretty sure he caught a glimpse of a few - not as many as there would usually be out at this time of day, but certainly a few.

At the Refuge they were made to shower, and carefully checked for lice (Boots supposed it was a credit to old man Kloppman that none of them had any. He wondered if Kloppman knew where they were now, or if he cared.). Boots soon had reason to regret his habit of keeping all of his important possessions close to his person - his clothes and shoes were not returned to him, and instead he was issued a pair of grey pants that were too long, a grey shirt made for a much smaller boy, and a startlingly pristine white nightshirt to sleep in.

From there, Boots and the other boys were brought in for a brief interview with a stern looking crab of an old woman, who asked them if they understood what they’d been brought in for, and refused to listen to their answers. She handed them each a rule book (also grey), and explained that they could expect a three day period of relative leniency, after which the regulations would be enforced to full effect.

“Three days to see what damage we can do.” Swifty rubbed his hands together, and grinned at the woman. The words made the bruise on Boots’ cheek throb, but the woman didn’t hit Swifty.  
She only sighed, rubbed her temples, and launched into a lengthy description of demerits and punishments.

“Do you boys have any questions?” The woman asked, once she’d finished her speech.

Cautiously, Boots raised his hand, like he’d learned during the four months of his life that he’d been able to attend school. The woman nodded at him.

“When do we get out of here?” Boots asked.

The corners of the woman’s mouth turned upward, in something that was almost like a smile. Maybe she was trying to be kind. “That’s up to you,” she told him. “Your sentence could be as short as one month, depending on your case and if you follow the rules to the letter. If not—” she waved her hand off into the distance, as if to indicate an infinite amount of time. “Well, we’re required to either release you or move you to an adult facility once you reach the age of twenty-one. I believe that just about covers it.”

—————-

There were lots of kids like Boots at the Refuge. At least, he guessed that there probably were. The guards didn’t want him to know that. They didn’t want him to be known. They wanted him to be hungry and hopeless, to imagine himself alone no matter how many others surrounded him. It took Boots a few hours to learn that. He and Snitch were thrown into a woodworking class before afternoon chores, just to try it out, just to see where they belonged. Snitch cringed every time he touched the saw, as if he expected it to jump up and bite him. Another boy, one with freckles and a menacing expression, tested the blade with such interest that Boots wondered if the system was purposely trying to make a murderer of him. More of the boys, however, were ones that Boots could identify with. They were small, and hard, and smart. They’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Probably most of them were orphans. Probably they were trying to keep quiet, trying to keep their head down, trying to get out.

Before the day was up, Boots wanted to escape.

Crutchy found him at dinner, a meal which consisted of bread that might as well have been cardboard, a few spoonfuls of mysterious slop, and approximately nothing else.  
“It’ll be alright,” Crutchy promised. “Just you wait and see. The newsies’ll come through in the end.” Crutchy squeezed Boots’ shoulder, and something in his hand squished wetly there. When Crutchy let go, a sprig of soggy asparagus came rolling down into Boots’ lap. It wasn’t the most discreet attempt at getting him extra food, but Boots was grateful anyway. He’d read somewhere about sailors who got scurvy and died from not eating enough green food. He stuffed the asparagus into his mouth in one bite.

“Jack’s here,” Crutchy whispered against Boots’ ear. He said it like this was supposed to be comforting. Maybe it was. There was always a chance that Jack could hook them all up with a carriage and an oblivious politician, and then they could spend the rest of their mortal lives running from the law. Boots covered his mouth, because otherwise he wasn’t going to keep his asparagus down.

 

————-

The boys at the Refuge weren’t allowed to talk amongst each other at night, but that was all they did. Snyder or the guards came in and out every forty-five minutes or so, but the boys had outsmarted them with an extremely sophisticated watch system.

“You don’t gotta stand watch tonight,” one of the boys explained to Boots. “On account of you’s new. You’ll make up for the turns you missed later this week, I s'pose.”

All kinds of dealings went on at night. The boys who worked in the kitchen had set up a trade system of sorts, where stolen food could be sold off in return for equally stolen hammers, favors, or bits of information. Half a deck of cards was mysteriously produced, and some of the kids played. Boots quickly found Crutchy, Swifty, Itey, and Snitch, and huddled close to talk to them.

“Hey, I didn’t steal them twenty dollars,” Swifty tried to explain. “The guard planted it on me.”

“Never thought I’d hear you denying stealing something,” Crutchy said.

“Especially not twenty dollars,” said Boots. “Would’ve thought you’d see it as a challenge and a point of honer. You’re shameless, and I’m surprised you ain’t been to prison sooner.”

“That’s true enough,” Swifty admitted. “And it’s not so much that I mind being here. Always knew it was coming. You think the other boys really think I stole them twenty dollars?”

“Yes,” Crutchy and Snitch said, almost in unison.

Swifty sighed, “If I’d stole all that dough, which I didn’t, I would’ve been using it for the strike fund. I would’ve found four boys to bail out when that idiot judge said we needed five dollars apiece. Just ‘cause I’m a rake don’t don’t mean I’m a tightwad.”

“Why’d they bring the two of you in?” Asked Boots, turning to Snitch and Itey.

“Itey tried to jump that cop who knocked you out,” Snitch explained mournfully. “Then I tried to explain that he was foreign and didn’t understand but…”

“I understand,” Itey interrupted with a scowl. “The cop is wrong.”

Snitch’s face contorted, like he might cry, or shout at Itey. “If you understood we wouldn’t be here,” he said instead, plaintively hopeless.

“I understand,” Itey repeated quietly, as if to himself.

“Never thought I’d be a criminal,” Snitch went on. “I’m one for walking the straight and narrow, I am, but here I is, rotting in some lousy prison.”

“Yeah,” Boots repeated quietly. He thought of his aunt, then tried to vanish her from his mind just as quickly. She’d always taught him to do right. “I don’t know that we’s criminals, except for Swifty. You gotta break the law to be a criminal…”

“You mean like ripping up newspapers we didn’t pay for,” said Crutchy.

Boots winced. “Right. Fair enough. Guess we did do that, and I don’t regret it neither, but that ain’t what we’re in for, is it?”

“It’s what I’m in for,” Crutchy said. He sounded almost proud.

“Itey’s in for attacking a cop,” said Snitch. “Swifty’s here for the only twenty dollars he ever saw in his life that he didn’t steal. I’m here 'cause of Itey. Boots is here for keeping a necklace in his pocket.”

“My necklace, that my aunt gave me, before she died.” Boots crossed his arms protectively around himself. There was a lump in his throat. He shouldn’t have spoken at all. “I’m going to bed,” he said. “Talking about your misfortunes never did no one any good. That’s something my aunt used to tell me.”

True to his word, Boots broke off from the group and made for his assigned bunk, which he was sharing with three other boys, one of which was called “Pissy Pete” for reasons that Boots didn’t want to contemplate. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Swifty shrug, and offer the other boys some cigarettes which he’d gotten God knows where.

———–

Two days into his stint in the Refuge, Boots was transferred from woodworking to kitchen duty. He wished that Swifty had gotten the transfer instead, because Swifty had no morals, and would rob the kitchen blind and share with everybody else. That was also the day that Jack left, not that Boots got a chance to say goodbye (or even hello for that matter. The only things he knew of  
Jack were what Crutchy told him.).

Three days in, after seeing what kinds of things went onto Snyder’s plate, Boots began to wonder if stealing some food for himself and his friends might be acceptable after all. Crutchy did it all the time, with so little finesse that he really should have been caught and punished twelve times over.

On Boots’ fourth day in the Refuge, everything ground to a halt. Teddy Roosevelt came in waving his walking stick like a flag, and Boots was free just as quickly and arbitrarily as he’d been imprisoned.

—————-

Boots didn’t know everything about what had happened to Jack during his first stint in the Refuge, in those days and months before his famous escape. He just knew that it had been bad. Ten-Pin had told Boots a little about it, just enough to make Boots recognize Warden Snyder as the devil in disguise.

Boots hadn’t had it that bad. He’d been there a very short time, and yeah, he’d lost a few pounds, but he’d gone by unnoticed and therefore unscathed. That’s why he didn’t mention to anybody when, weeks later, he was still having bad dreams about the incident. Swifty and Itey were fine. Boots was fine too. Snitch whined about the whole thing, but Boots was made of stronger stuff than that.

 

At night Boots tossed and turned quietly. The feeling of safety had left him, and he couldn’t get it back. Sometimes he reached for his locket, but it wasn’t there, until one morning he woke up and it was, just tucked under his pillow.

Swifty was staring at him, a grin on his face.

“You do this?” Boots asked, already knowing the answer.

“Got some family heirlooms for myself too, but I figured that one’s yours,” Swifty sat down next to Boots on his bed, and started taking handfuls of rings and broaches out of his pocket.

“When’d you go from picking pockets to breaking into houses?”

Swifty shrugged. “I’m a man of many talents.”

Boots just nodded. He brought the locket up to his lips without thinking about it, only lowering it when he realized that Swifty was watching, and would probably mistake him for someone sentimental if he kept that up.

“You doin’ alright?” Swifty asked, which surprised Boots almost as much as the necklace had.

“Yeah. You?”

“Oh, I’m grand. Always am.”

Boots opened the locket, just a crack, and closed it again quickly. The picture in it was gone. For the first time Swifty’s trademark grin faltered.

“Me too,” Boots said lied, and since Swifty wasn’t smiling anymore, Boots tried to take up the expression himself. “Thanks for finding my necklace.”


End file.
